


Gymcest

by Blake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gym Porn, M/M, PWP, Season 8, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean feels weirder about objectifying his brother than he does about fucking him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gymcest

**Author's Note:**

> I really am not a Sam faboy, despite all appearances. I hope this is a fun read!

Dean likes to think there are reasons for this that _don’t_ have to do with his dick. He fucks his brother, but it’s not ’cause he has the hots for him or anything.

But Dean’s not into pink hearts and ugly-baby arrows, thank you, it’s not some romantic crap that keeps fucking Sam in the “something more” category of his sex life. He’s also pretty sure it’s not homophobia. He doesn’t press on that one too much though, just plays the “I’ve sucked more dicks than Sam’s banged chicks” card, which is enough for him. And it’s definitely not that he’s under delusions of loving Sam’s soul more than his body, because hell, he’s _gone_ to hell for that soul and kicked it around himself a few times and knows that it isn’t some noble beautiful thing that he particularly _likes_.

The fact remains, Dean fucks his brother, and it’s not because he’s attracted to him.

Naturally, all that reasoning flies out the fucking window on days like this. Days when there’s two feet of snow on the ground, an itch crawling up both their spines from being pent up indoors, a case with no ends you could exactly describe as “alive,” so they go to the _gym. Together_.

That’s when Dean’s mind gets screwed.

He doesn’t even look at Sam until a couple of miles on the treadmill are behind him. His brooding and grumbling fuel him that far before they steam off into something more… just Dean. And while Just Dean is a totally fine runner, Just Dean is also thoroughly tired and bored by watching his feet land on the same ten-foot strip of rubber and counting tenths of miles and jesus, are there seriously towns so small they haven’t heard of treadmill televisions? 

Two miles and twenty-six hundredths of another into it, Dean turns his head to give Sam a “please say you’re bored with this and will entertain me” smile. The smile never makes it past the corners of his mouth, though, because he ends up biting his lip.

That is one astounding ass, Dean notices, watching hard muscle bunch up in gym shorts with each stride. And the skin that’s showing above those shorts, where the shirt’s not long enough, that’s some hot looking skin. Literally hot, like Dean’s tongue would burn if he fit his mouth over it, licked his way down the path of those obliques brushing relentlessly against the sweat-shiny surface.

Sam is _hot_.

Okay, okay, hold your horses, Dean thinks to himself as he slows down the boredom machine to a jogging pace. That’s his brother over there, the person he would do anything for, the person he knows better than his own blood, the person he’ll die with unless something gets in his way (which it won’t.) _That’s_ why the sex happens. It all has to do with being fucking crazy, Dean’s sure, and it has to do with Sam _driving_ him crazy, almost as much as the world fucking with Sam drives him crazy. Sam is his, and Dean figured out a long time ago that that’s why, when they’re fucking, Dean bites Sam’s shoulder like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever tasted.

Jogging is slow enough he can turn and fully check out Sam. Sam, who looks like he’s dying or coming when he’s huffing hot air through parted lips, screwing up his maze-like forehead in concentration, licking, oh, licking his lips as he speeds up to a sprint. He looks like a machine. But like a machine that’s also a wild beast. Whatever, he’s run like twice as far as Dean has in the same amount of time, so Dean stops, feeling defeated in an oddly satisfying way, feeling beaten, small, and _turned on_.

So, his brother’s the hottest guy at the gym. The hottest guy at the gym is _his_.

Dean wipes off the treadmill he barely even sweat on and goes to do sit-ups and consider that. Conveniently, the stretching mat is behind the treadmills, so Dean can watch Sam’s rock-hard ass and consider it.

It’s obviously not the first time, but Dean’s not _used_ to being turned on by Sam without also kind of wanting to strangle the guy. It sure as hell doesn’t happen every time they work out together, so Dean’s sort of thinking about the idea of some type of possession. Some deal where Dean can sense the inside’s different, so the outside looks like a stranger’s-- because the way he wants to fuck that dude on the treadmill isn’t the way he wants to fuck Sammy. 

But Dean remembers Sam without his soul, and remembers wanting Sam’s body in pretty much the same way as always-- because it’s _his_. So it’s probably not anything to do with Sam’s soul or anybody’s soul in Sam. Also, Sam rolled his eyes eighteen times at Dean’s bitching on the way over here, so yeah, Sam’s intact.

Maybe Dean’s the possessed one. Maybe there’s something half-filling his mind, something that doesn’t recognize Sam as anything but a hot piece of ass. That would make sense. If Dean was, you know, possessed, which he’s not.

Sam goes from sprinting right to doing a million reps on a scary looking machine that makes his arms look like they have a living seaweed forest swaying under the skin. And that should be gross, but damn, he’s strong. The things he could do to Dean.

The things he _has_ done to Dean, but come on. Let a guy indulge in a little fantasy.

Indulging in fantasy feels weird. Dean gets off on memories of Sam sometimes, but usually only when he wants to feel like a dirty mess who swallowed his brother’s come the day before because he can’t live without it. None of this _bet that guy could hold my ass in any position he wanted to see it in, splitting open on his thick cock_ crap. Fantasy feels weird. He feels weirder about objectifying his brother than he does about fucking him. Who would have thought.

He just needs to get out of this gym. Out of this snow-constipated town. At least some fresh air. Dean hauls himself up, puts his complaining face back on and walks over to the frantically clanging machine Sam’s beating to a pulp.

_I’m outta here, meet you at the motel_ , is what Dean intends to (grumpily) say. Instead, to his horror, he watches himself flick his workout towel against Sam’s bicep, and says, “Hey.”

Sam pauses in between reps to look at Dean. “Hey.” His answer is hesitant. His face is confused.

Dean realizes he’s smiling instead of scowling, and to hell with it, he’s always been the kind of guy that rides the feeling of the moment. “Been watching you work out,” he murmurs.

One of Sam’s exhales sounds especially amused. “Ha, yeah?” He doesn’t sound surprised. Probably because he thinks Dean’s messing with him, and that is never surprising.

“You really know how to use your…body.”

Sam gives him another skeptical look, all while pushing two firmly gripped handles repeatedly down and back up and making it actually look cool. “Dean, salt and holy water’s in the gym bag if you want to check me. Or, you know, yourself.”

“Kinky,” Dean comments with a quirk of his eyebrow. He puts an elbow on top of some generic black piece of weight equipment to lean on it. Thumbnail between his teeth. Hand on his popped-out hip. He sees Sam getting ready to tell him to bug off so he beats him to the next word. “You must work out a ton. You spend a lot of time here?”

Sam drops his weight-handle-whatevers and glares. “What?” he asks, and Dean loves making Sam’s face crumple up in frustrated confusion like that.

“Just,” Dean starts. He’s really bad at coy. Being bad at something never stops him from trying, though. “You look so strong.” He lets go of his hip to palm Sam’s bicep, which bulges suddenly as Sam resumes his workout. Dear lord.

“What’s this about, Dean.” Once he can rip his eyes off the ripped muscle Sam’s abusing, Dean realizes he doesn’t have an answer. In fact, he feels pretty silly.

Huffing, discouraged, Dean breaks away from Sam’s personal space. “Whatever,” he grunts. “I’m goin’a the bathroom.” He stops mid-step when he hears himself. In the context of the rest of that conversation, that didn’t sound too out of place. He grants himself a smile at the irony, and goes to take a piss and clear his head in cold sink water.

The locker room’s empty, though, which makes Dean re-evaluate his to-do list. Seems like a prime opportunity to jack off in the shower and get it all out of his system. So, take a piss, clear his head in warm shower water, and drain his balls onto the grimy tile wall.

He’s done with the first two things and twenty-six hundredths of the last thing when the shower curtain is torn open behind him.

“Oh,” Dean sputters, his hand still wrapped around his dick as he backs himself into the corner furthest away from Sam’s hulking figure. His mind is still filled with images of Sam’s burning skin, Sam’s cock brushing heavy and hard against his thighs, Sam’s arms holding him down, so it’s tricky to see exactly what’s standing in front of him. Sam, obviously, but the lines are fuzzy. “You got the rubber?” he asks stupidly through the mist of shower steam, before realizing it was the Sam in his head who had whispered, _I’ll be right back_ into Dean’s ear. Not the Sam in front of him.

“Dean, what the fuck.” Clearly, Sam thinks Dean’s weird. But Sam is stripping his towel off and stepping naked into the shower next to his brother’s hard on, so clearly, Sam is no authority on weird.

“We could just be two dudes in the gym,” Dean says abruptly. He raises his voice to be heard over the spray of the shower. “I could have just been checking you out while you worked out.” He steps from his corner, into the heat-radiating shape of Sam, whose chest is resiliently absorbing the full impact of the water. Dean takes Sam’s hand, scoots even closer, and wraps Sam’s fingers around his, around his own cock. “And you came to meet me in the showers to fuck.” Sam’s hand is hot, and doesn’t retreat. Dean’s breath comes shorter now.

Dean puts his hands on Sam’s chest, waiting. Sam’s hand loosens slightly around his dick, but just when Dean’s about to protest, Sam moves forward, instead of backward. Sam grabs the base of his cock, shoves Dean with his other hand, until Dean’s pressed into the corner again. “You’re so weird,” Sam says. His voice is hushed and at Dean’s ear. “Is this some purgatory thing?” Dean ignores that, doesn’t care what he said because he’s jerking Dean off nice and firm now.

Sam’s hand feels slick and chafing at the same time because everything does in this water, Sam’s skin too. There are squeaking, windshield-wiper sounds as Dean splays his hands over Sam’s chest and drags down, wiping away oily sweat with his fingers. The squeaking is drowned out by Sam moaning in appreciation-- Dean’s not sure if that’s the cause or the effect of his own dick twitching and getting significantly harder.

Dean’s cock doesn’t start leaking precum onto Sam’s wrist until Sam’s other hand starts feeling him up. Dean’s ass gets grabbed, spread. His spine gets scraped by Sam’s nails. His skin, his tattooed skin, gets clutched and pulled away from its muscle. Sam grunts and wraps his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, squeezes. Rubs down the length of Dean’s arm like his flesh is something desirable.

His hip, again, trapped under the pressure of Sam’s firm grip so that Sam has all control of the leverage it takes to get Dean off. His wet mass of hair is in Dean’s face, blinding, but he can tell that Sam is looking down, watching, getting off on the sight of Dean’s body under his hands.

That’s when Dean gets painfully close to coming.

Sam can tell. He drops to his knees, and that’s what sends Dean over the edge.

He comes all over Sam’s steady fingers, onto his own abdomen, pleasure licking at every corner of his stomach and making it hard to keep his eyes open. But Sam’s there, licking at the head of Dean’s cock before he even finishes shooting his load, and how could he not watch that. Sam’s tongue, picking up all traces of him. Sam sucking at the skin under his happy trail, lapping up his jizz before it gets too watered down by the shower. Sam mumbling what feels like the word “mine” against Dean’s hip. He stops a minute to pant, still there against Dean’s hip. Then he licks off what’s left on his fingers. He stands up, just when Dean’s about ready to sink to the floor.

“All mine,” Sam whispers at the corner of Dean’s mouth. His breath tastes like Dean. Dean does try to fall to the floor then, but Sam holds him pinned to the wall.

“You’re so hot.” Dean says it before the moment fades away completely. He reaches for Sam’s cock and strokes the shaft, just enough to tease Sam and satisfy himself. “Fucking hot.”

“Okay,” Sam says. He’s still not on whatever weird page Dean flipped to and ended up on today. Not even taking the compliment, the dumbass, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s letting Dean do what he wants anyways. Doesn’t matter if he thinks Dean’s hot, because he is _Dean’s._

“Stuff that in your pants long enough to make it back to the motel and I’ll take care of you. I have condoms and everything.” Dean addresses this to Sam’s dick, but Sam answers.

“That’s… thoughtful of you.” Dean can hear the amusement in Sam’s voice, but it in no way indicates that Sam has the upper hand here. Feeling pretty damn pleased with himself, Dean steps out of the shower, flicking his towel against Sam’s chest before snapping it back and drying off his hair.

So what if he didn’t just get to bang the hottest guy at the gym. Dean supposes he’ll settle for the hottest guy at the gym being _his_.


End file.
